


Finding Brotherhood

by DragonWarden



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, Gen, gratuitous axe-waving, gratuitous bad-assery too, heed the Graphic Depictions of Violence rating, origins fic sort-of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWarden/pseuds/DragonWarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>On the third day, the bureau head called on Mathis, except the man paused in the act of pressing the message into Mathis’ hand and pinned him with a sober look. “Watch him. And watch yourself. If you encounter trouble - you may abandon at will.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mathis stared, then suddenly clenched his hand tight around the slip, unwittingly crumpling the missive. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Watch the bearded man, perhaps to show others the man was being watched. Watch himself, in case others decided to intervene. The bearded man was apparently the assassins’ stalking horse, a decoy - Mathis asked in measured tones, “Does this message matter at all, then?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The bureau head glanced down at the wrinkled slip, then met Mathis’ eyes and said, “No.”</em>
</p><p>In which the assassins find the axeman and the axeman finds the assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I re-watched the AC: Unity trailer one too many times and stumbled across [this](http://nishii.tumblr.com/post/92576216980) in the middle of the night and BAM suddenly had all the axe-man feels and it just kills me that there's absolutely nothing about him except what you see in the trailer. Thus, a really really REALLY quick detour to scratch the itch before I carry on with other projects. (Now, in my head, [that](http://nishii.tumblr.com/post/92576216980) will forever be the axe man in a modern AU - derping along with a set of bright orange Dr. Beats headphones.)

Mathis waited upon the upper docks, shoulder against wood, letting the width of the piling shade his profile. The declining sun was not quite as fierce anymore, but still it glittered harsh from the water and the air felt sapped of vitality. The Assassin tugged the knot of his collar even looser as he exhaled, slanting a slitted gaze past dock-post and sun-glare to eye the barge being unloaded. 

_He will arrive at the wharf by sundown. Once he gives you the message, tell him to return in three days. You will have another to give him by then._

Three men were clearing the barge's deck, moving with the wordless efficiency of lifelong laborers. Two were wiry, lean and hungry-looking, scarves wrapped around their heads against the sun and sweat, taking crates between them in a steady march from vessel to land. The third had the hood of a ragged coat to shade head and eyes, the thicker material cut off at the shoulders, baring shirtsleeves gray with dust and streaked by tar, rolled up to the elbows in concession to the lingering heat. All that could be seen of his features was a mouth set in a neutral line, framed by a beard trimmed roughly close. 

He handled the un-crated items alone, slinging bulging duffels and sacks over broad shoulders with awkward ease. His forearms were thick and corded with muscle - unpadded by fat, as so few beneath the aristocracy were these days - his frame a dense, compact mass that was evident in the careless confidence with which he hauled the items off the barge; more bothered by their unwieldy shape than their weight. 

Mathis smoothed a thumb over the elegant line of his sword's handguard, angled beneath his left elbow; an unconscious tell that had him curling his hand into a loose fist as soon as he noticed. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he sneaked a last look toward the half-sunken sun before turning behind the piling and stepping off the dock's opposite edge, alighting in a crouch upon the lower docks. 

Water-warped boards squeaked and groaned as he timed his steps carefully through slants of light and shadow, rounding the last posts just as the barge was finally cleared. The two crate-carriers, stretching gratefully upon the boardwalk, called a question to the bearded man. 

The man paused, considering, and then shrugged in assent. Mathis lengthened his stride, crossing the remaining distance between them in five quick steps, and laid a hand upon the man's arm just as he hopped up from the barge's deck, about to follow the others. "Pardon, my friend," he murmured. "If you would, a moment? I believe you have word from my father, whom I have not seen in many years." 

The man half-turned to regard him, eyes just barely visible as darker shadows beneath the hood's brim, raking down and back up his form before a corner of the mouth turned upwards. And, as easy as that, he looked up to the other workers, brushing the edge of his hood with a rakish curl of fingers in salute. "Another time, my friends!" 

As the laborers left one way, the bearded man walked in the other, and Mathis fingered his sword's hilt one last time before he turned to follow. 

* * *

The message, when decoded, had been unsurprisingly cryptic instructions for the local bureau head, about things that Mathis was not privy to. What _was_ surprising was the single, least cryptic line appended to the end: _Watch him._ After a phlegmatic shrug, the bureau head had waved Mathis off to do as they were bid. 

And so Mathis followed the man with the beard and watched him wander through the outskirts of Paris for a morning and most of an afternoon. Watched him buy a frugal meal with a blunt and open charm that wheedled an extra apple from the gently exasperated matron. Watched him linger over shop windows and displays - sometimes in incredulous fascination, sometimes with a snort of amusement, and once with a wistfulness that he brushed off with an embarrassed roll of his shoulders, glancing around to see if any had observed his lapse before quickly striding off. Mathis, perched atop the gable of the building opposite, eyed the soft colors of the dresses hanging by the shop's door and mentally tucked the information away. 

Mathis watched him return to the wharfs in time to meet the last wave of vessels coming in to be moored for the day, hiring himself out as common muscle. The man was obviously not trained to the water in spite of the barge he had arrived on, but he learned quickly enough with only a few directions; meeting the boatmen's curt impatience with an amicable aplomb that earned him a place amongst them in spite of his non-Parisian accent. When they inevitably migrated to a tavern upon work's end, Mathis watched him sit within the loose circle of their company, head thrown back in laughter as loud as theirs, one elbow hooked over the back of his chair and legs asprawl, at ease with their rough ways and their rougher humor. 

Mathis watched him for a second day that passed much like the first, except that the man did not bother venturing into the city again; instead, roaming the banks of the Seine and continuing to pick up the odd job requiring manual labor, trading his time as often for a meal as for whatever coin the proprietor was willing to spare. He did not speak when others were not prone to chatting, comfortable with the silence; but when others talked, he listened, head tilted in a way that encouraged words, even as he worked. 

On the third day, the bureau head called on Mathis, except the man paused in the act of pressing the message into Mathis' hand and pinned him with a sober look. "Watch him. And watch yourself. If you encounter trouble - you may abandon at will." 

Mathis stared, then suddenly clenched his hand tight around the slip, unwittingly crumpling the missive. 

Watch the bearded man, perhaps to show others the man was being watched. Watch himself, in case others decided to intervene. The bearded man was apparently the Assassins' stalking horse, a decoy - Mathis asked in measured tones, "Does this message matter at all, then?" 

The bureau head glanced down at the wrinkled slip, then met Mathis' eyes and said, "No." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I lied, it won't be just 2 chapters. There'll be a 3rd action-packed one, and then a pseudo-epilogue.

It was sunset once again when Mathis approached the wharfs.

He wrestled with the question of what the bearded man had been promised. Mathis had not been told to pass on any payment, yet the man himself seemed to feel beholden enough that he had lingered near all day rather than risk missing the meeting. For all the opportunities he had taken to find alternative work before, the man now loitered, seemingly idle and relaxed, upon an old barrel in the shade of an alley. With arms crossed and shoulders slouched and his hood drawn over his head, he could have been mistaken for a simple itinerant sneaking in an opportunity for an undisturbed nap.

But the man shifted before the Assassin had stepped fully within the alley's welcome chill, brushing the hood down around his neck. As imperturbable as he had appeared over the last few days, it seemed even he was eager to finish with their business now. "Good, you're awake," Mathis nodded in both greeting and approval. "You may wish to depart soon - I believe there are still one or two more vessels leaving before dusk that you can board if you hurry."

The man hopped off the barrel, gaze sharpening. "Is hurry needed?"

Mathis grimaced. No, hurry was not needed. Perhaps even discouraged, depending on how lengthy of a distraction they needed, and that was the problem. Because Mathis had watched him for three days and was convinced he was a decent man, and even worse, was beginning to wonder what circumstances had thrust him between the Assassins and the Templars and what warnings he could afford to give. "There may be trouble that comes with this," he reluctantly admitted, extending out his hand with the half-crumpled message tucked into his palm.

The bearded man accepted hand and message with a raised brow and a disbelieving snort.

Mathis could not help the answering quirk of his mouth. "More than what may have been initially promised you," he amended. His eyes flicked to the side when a gull chuckled, just beyond the mouth of the alley, hovering with wings cupped upon a breeze as something caught its attention. Mathis' gaze lingered upon the pier-mounted crane it had been inspecting, though after one more disappointed chatter, the bird drifted on, with seemingly nothing more to show for its distraction.

"Do not worry; it had been made clear before I came here that no promises were being made," came the bland response, and, distracted, Mathis glanced back in time to catch the man dipping his head with that signature mock salute of his in farewell.

Mathis knew he should not ask, should not be curious, should not _care._ But he still found the words leaving him as he looked back to where the gull had looked, the image of pastel dresses hung on a shop door clear in his mind. "Are you going back to someone, now? A wife? A love?"

And because the heights were as much his road as the ground, he tilted his gaze up - and saw the dull glint of light off a slender metal bore; the unmistakable profile of a long, wood-clad stock just beginning to angle down upon them.

The bearded man paused, already half-turned away. "A little sister - " he admitted, baffled.

 _If you encounter trouble - you may abandon at will_ .

" - she will be thirteen in a few days - "

Mathis lost a precious heartbeat's time to indecision. Then spent a second one to arm his phantom blade. And then the third was used to grip the bearded man's shoulder, tugging him sharply aside as Mathis aimed and released.

There was the flat crack of a report and Mathis' head snapped backwards upon his neck. The world canted wildly onto its side as a numbing fog filled his skull, limbs going loose and uncooperative. He could still hear echoes of the shot, reflecting dizzyingly from the stone faces around them, making the world seem to spin even as he could see the steady line of the ground rushing up to meet him -

The world tilted and grayed as arms caught and manhandled him. For a time, he was aware of almost nothing at all, might have thought he was not even awake, except that he had just enough mind left to wonder how he would be able to tell the difference. The world was in no hurry to return, though he could sometimes feel tugs and pulls in odd directions; was not certain which sensations were real and which illusory as his stomach roiled, then cramped painfully.

Colors came back while he gagged and choked. There was a firm, comforting pressure on his shoulder while he was sick, holding him up. Squeezing his eyes shut against a scene that had a disturbing tendency to smear and echo itself with every shift of his gaze, Mathis concentrated on its weight and solidity while he spat the sour taste out of his mouth.

It was a long moment before he realized that there were words being spoken, was not even aware of the ringing in his ears until he had to struggle to focus past it. " - breathe, slower - can you lean against here? Good. I need to move, stay here and remember to breathe - "

" - what - " Mathis tried to croak, nearly gagged again at the sting in his throat, and dared to slit one eye open by the barest of slivers.

A slow look in which he was careful to keep his head perfectly still showed that the man had dragged them deeper into the alley. A blind alley; the end nothing but the extension of another building, walls on all sides looming overhead by two stories and more, casting everything within into a dim, chilly gloom.

While it would have been nothing to Mathis were he hale and whole, with his head feeling twice as big as it should be and his stomach rebelling at the very thought of standing, it was starting to look like quite a sizable obstacle. Besides which, there was still the matter of the bearded man, who did not have the training to scale things the way the Assassins did.

"They'll come," Mathis rasped, trying to find the words, even his tongue feeling stiff and contrary, "more of them. Trapped here - "

The man shrugged, casting an uneasy glance toward the alley's mouth before he positioned himself in front of a wide, shuttered window. "I think you struck him, but not a killing blow. He's had time to reload if he's not dead, but that's not something I wish to test." A light rap of his fist rattled the thick boards, and even Mathis could tell from the sound that it would take quite the blow to force them.

Mathis closed his eyes, grimacing, and dared to press a hand to his brow - and was nearly sick again at the lance of pain that came from a furrow carved just over his temple, painting all the side of his face and collar with a sticky scarlet mess. Panting, he was still struggling for composure when he distantly registered the sounds of another testing rattle, a grunt of effort … and then his eyes flew open as there was a great, splintering _CRACK_ that echoed all up and down the alley.

The shutters rebounded with a crash from the inner walls. The bearded man, dangling by his fingertips from a crossbeam overhead, swung his legs down from the kick and dropped back to the ground, sneezing at the dust that had been shaken loose. Waving a hand through the dispersing cloud, he leaned through to peer inside before striding over to Mathis and crouching. "I think we can find an exit from here that opens to another street. Can you stand?"

"I will have to, yes?" Mathis gritted out between his teeth, and the man bared his own in a quick flash of amusement.

"I suppose you'll survive if you're already sounding that ill-tempered," he pronounced, ducking under one of Mathis' arms and helping him up.


	3. Chapter 3

For all of Mathis' bravado, however, it was clear that he would not be up to anything but a sedately-paced escape, much less any that required dodging and running. After getting through the window, he could only sink down against the wall beneath one of the splintered shutters, head bowed over his knees as he tried to _will_ the world to stop spinning. "I need … only a moment … " he protested, to which there was a noncommittal hum of agreement as the bearded man paced around the room, exploring.

What glimpses Mathis had gotten on his way in made the space seem like some sort of tool storage for a much larger warehouse. Filled with murky shadows and odd shapes, it contained an air of forgotten and abandoned things; something that was becoming more and more common as France's financial woes deepened …

Mathis did not notice he had drifted until a grip suddenly squeezed his shoulder, making him start. "Keep talking," the man rumbled, hunched close. "I do not think it would be good for you to sleep. I knew a carpenter, once, who had fallen from a roof - he had said he only needed a nap, but did not wake again. His body wasted away."

"I do not need a nap," was all Mathis' addled thoughts could manage after pausing briefly upon that macabre image, and there was a last, amiable pat upon his shoulder before the man was stalking back into the gloom. Pressing the heel of a hand carefully against the side of his head, Mathis struggled to put order to what their next steps should be. "Do you know how to use a sword?"

There was a ripping sound of rough fabric - burlap, torn off some empty sacking - and the bearded man wound strips in uneven layers around his left forearm, deliberately messy with its twists. "I think I got to touch one, once," he mused with dry nonchalance. "When I was a boy and the blacksmith wanted me out from underfoot."

Mathis sighed irritably, just barely withholding a rude comment for the man's cheek. "Unfortunate, then, that I have a serviceable blade, but not a serviceable arm."

"That was a good trick, what you did outside." The man tested a pair of great double doors that faced the docks, but only to ensure that they remained secure. They would need anything that led back out into the sniper's sights to be firmly barred. This meant that the only viable exit was a regular sized door in the opposite corner; probably leading out into the warehouse proper. "Do you have any more surprises?"

"I can load more, but would not trust my aim right now. Otherwise … " Mathis released the hidden blade, and the sound and sight of the slender length of steel made the man pause, then nod in approval.

"Good, then you still have something to defend yourself with."

Bemused by the thought of someone worrying over whether an Assassin had adequate defenses, Mathis asked, "And what of you? As I recall, you do not have so much as an eating knife on you."

The man had just hefted a narrow board, testing its weight, when Mathis' remark made him pause and turn. Too late, Mathis realized he had, perhaps, revealed a more intimate knowledge of the man's habits than he should probably know, when the dark eyes abruptly flicked up - and widened.

Mathis' head may have still felt like it was only attached precariously at the moment, but at least his reflexes seemed to have returned along with his facility for words. He was lashing out almost before he registered the pistol thrust through the window under which he was huddled, and while he did not quite spear the hand like he had intended, the broad slice which he dragged up the back of it sent the single shot harmlessly into the ceiling.

The bearded man took care of the rest. In three leaping strides, he crossed the floor between them with startling speed and flung his entire momentum and weight behind a fist that connected in an audible crunch of cartilage. Then they were abruptly plunged into near light-less gloom as he slapped the shutters closed, flicking splintered wood out of the way to drop the same board he had been inspecting into the shutter brackets - not a second too soon, as the entire ensemble promptly shuddered beneath the assault of a shoulder from the other side.

Braced upon the elbow he had fallen upon after his thoughtless lunge, Mathis winced at the cacophony and almost wished his head had indeed rolled off in the precipitous movement. At least this time his stomach was appeased by just a few dry swallows. "Oh, very good. And here I was worried we had too many options to choose from."

The bearded man threw him a look that was - fortunately or unfortunately - lost to a darkness that was pierced only by what light managed to seep through the shutter cracks. Thankfully, he seemed not so inclined to waste time on further banter as he unceremoniously pulled Mathis to his feet, then began picking his way determinedly toward the remaining door through the room's detritus.

But then, no words were needed, considering the tension Mathis could feel vibrating through the body he was braced against. As impressive as the man's outward composure was, it was apparently still only an act, and he was no doubt beginning to realize just how terrible their circumstances were. Feeling obscurely guilty, Mathis drew breath to give some sort of reassurance …

… and had to swallow the words whole when there were two resounding _bangs_ that splintered metal and wood before the door's shattered lock was kicked in.

Mathis found himself dumped on his rear almost before the door had rebounded, and the jarring impact that raced up his spine nearly wrenched the world out of alignment again. But it was not so bad this time that he missed the silhouette of a man tossing away two spent pistols and drawing a sword as he stepped inside, more following behind him; nor the way the bearded man stepped pointedly in front of Mathis, his bulk blocking most of the view.

"What are you doing?" Mathis hissed as he tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his head. "Don't be an idiot, it's not you they want - "

"Ah, are the Assassins so desperate now, that they hide behind the dogs in the gutter?" the lead Templar sneered, his thick city accent only making the disdain sound even more cutting. "Truly, it would be a mercy to - "

The bearded man batted the sword aside with his burlap-shielded arm and punched the Templar in the throat. In that pause when Templars and Assassin stared in like astonishment, he spun around the gurgling body of his first victim to whip the back of a fist into another man's temple, knuckles connecting in a brutal crack of bone.

Then there was pandemonium.

For all the man's protest that he had no experience wielding a sword, he seemed to know intimately how one could be used against him. Even as Mathis finally managed to lever himself to his feet and drew his own blade in a desperate bid at defense, he glimpsed the man swaying just far enough away to avoid a slice before diving right back in, fighting to remain inside the weapon's effective range.

But there was only so much that bare fists can do against blades, and it was all Mathis himself could do to maintain his own feet. The chiaroscuro confusion of the room's shadows vying with the single spill of light from the doorway did nothing for his equilibrium, and though he at least felt his blade bite once or twice, it was an embarrassingly short amount of time later that he found himself with his face pressed to the stone ground, trying desperately not to be sick again, while someone's weight ground his arm with the hidden blade into his back.

"Hold, or he dies!"

The wild fray of bodies froze, then slowly sorted themselves out; the Templars clustered near the door, blocking the exit, and the bearded man standing alone and open-handed opposite them.

Mathis was just beginning to come to the dim realization that there was a remarkable number of Templars involved in this endeavor. Not counting the sniper and the attempted ambush from the window, there were four bodies either groaning or lying still upon the ground, and just as many still standing. The only thing that had saved Mathis and his compatriot from an outright slaughter was the room's close spaces - hampering maneuverability - and the Templars' need for whatever perceived information they carried. Something that was, apparently, important enough that it was worth all this extra effort.

"As you say … he is but a hired dog," Mathis grunted. The bearded man's shoulders rose and fell with his breaths, but he hardly looked either winded or cowed. At Mathis' attempted kindness, he even tensed, as if ready to leap right in again with fists swinging. "I have the code and the message. Let's stop wasting time, my head is killing me - let him go and I will tell you everything."

There was a disgusted noise and then the Templar that had spoken stepped up to whip his pommel viciously across the bearded man's face. Thrown backwards, the man landed amidst a crash and rattle of forgotten tools and other bric-a-brac, half-lost in the pile. "This is not a negotiation, Assassin!" the Templar snapped with a pointed glare.

Mathis bared his teeth. "If you wish to decode the message, then yes it is."

The Templar's nostrils flared with a sharp breath. "No - no, you do not get to set the terms. You will _beg_ for the opportunity to - "

There was only a single rattle of wood pieces being swept aside as warning - and even then, it came too late.

Till his dying day, Mathis would never forget the Templar's shriek when the axe took his leg off at the knee. And as the man toppled, the blade swung back around with exquisite precision - burying itself in his head, ending the scream as suddenly as it had started.

Only then did the bearded man push himself to his feet, prying the gory, makeshift weapon free with a flex of his wrist. Mathis felt the weight of the person pinning him down flinch back.

 _"Merde,"_ someone breathed into the abrupt silence.

"Don't - " another gasped, "don't just stand - "

The rest was lost in a roar as the bearded man charged.

Even Mathis flinched, and in that blink of time, the weight was abruptly gone from his back. Heart pounding, he rolled over to see the man plough the entire mass of unnerved Templars through the door; the man that had held Mathis now a hapless shield, pale and choking, pinned between the curved oak haft and his colleagues' blades.

Mathis probably wasted too much breath on muttered imprecations as he staggered to his feet, kicking one of the stirring bodies on the floor sloppily in the head as he passed before catching and bracing himself within the doorway. His fingers were already working clumsily to load another sliver of honed metal into the phantom blade, daring to risk his uncertain aim if it would help to buy his compatriot some more time.

The Templars had scattered like leaves blown before a wind. One was already down, moans weakening as he tried to hold his bloodied midsection together. Another was rapidly back-pedaling, eyes showing white all around, slashing out with a saber, form gone sloppy in panic. The axe slapped the slender blade aside in an overaggressive swing that Mathis thought was going to get the bearded man killed as the Templar lunged in, sensing an opening … except the man spun willingly with the axe's momentum, bowing low just in time so that the saber's edge merely skimmed his back, and then exploded upwards when the stroke came 'round again, slipping neatly beneath his opponent's defense.

The Templar was lifted clean off his feet; face chalk-pale and mouth slack and red, chest crumpling like a fragile cage of matchsticks around the wide wedge of the blade.

A shrill cry that contained more desperation than courage snapped Mathis' attention to the side. The bearded man noticed too, the Templar charging toward him with sword raised - but possibly not the second man also coming up behind him, a long knife clutched in both hands. Dry-mouthed, Mathis raised his arm and prayed that both his vision and aim were steady -

The Templar yelped as the phantom blade struck the shoulder instead of somewhere more vital. Mathis cursed, breath held, as he saw the bearded man's head jerk at the sound of someone so close behind him. At least the man had been warned, at least he could try to duck away …

But instead of turning to face the other threat, the man spread his grip, braced himself, and _heaved_ -

Corpse and axe swung into the charging Templar before him, stopping the man in his tracks with a grunt. In a lightning move, the bearded man planted a foot against the body and gave the weapon a savage _wrench_ … and blood flew in a wet, viscous arc through the air as the body went one way and the axe the other. He pivoted with the rebound, putting his shoulders into the counter swing just as the wounded Templar reached him …

The solid, blunt weight of the axe head crashed into the Templar's face with an ugly crunch. As the Templar's feet flew out from under him, the bearded man swiveled adroitly back to face his first opponent - still untangling himself from the body of his colleague - and in an almost leisurely circle, brought the axe over his head and down in a brutal two-handed stroke.

And suddenly, there were no more Templars.

Mathis looked around and swallowed.

It was like a scene from some blood-soaked battlefield rather than the comparatively decorous street fights and assassinations that Mathis had been a party to till now. The point only seemed to be punctuated when the bearded man slowly straightened - leaving the axe behind in its grisly mount - and wiped the back of a hand across his cheek; a smear of shockingly dark red left in its wake.

By slow degrees, he seemed to take stock of himself, fingering the small rents and tears in his clothes with the occasional wince, before he picked at his coat's buttons and shrugged the whole thing off to hold up for inspection. His expression blackened gradually as he noted the new slices and holes in it, the dark wet patches soaking through. Finally, he just let it drop to the warehouse floor with an oddly disconsolate sigh; less concerned for the shallow wounds that would have lain underneath than the apparently unsalvageable state of the garment.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

The man twitched at the sudden question; not quite taken by surprise, but certainly less alert than before. Mathis could sympathize; now that the adrenaline was ebbing, he was leaning ever more heavily against the doorjamb and the edges of his vision were beginning to swim again. "Was a forester," came the grudging admission after a time, and the man began picking his way over limbs and bodies.

"A forester," Mathis echoed, struggling to pack the full depth of his incredulity into the four syllables.

Another pause, as if he had to actively search for the correct words, and the man shrugged as he stopped and extended a hand in an offer of aid. "And a poacher."

"A poacher." Mathis was wrong; he had managed to push even more skepticism into his words than before. "And how in the world did you manage to be both a forester and a poacher?"

Another shrug as he took up some of the Assassin's weight, and the man ran a carefully bland gaze over the results of his handiwork. "By getting into trouble. Lots of it."


	4. Chapter 4

Mathis glanced quickly to either side - feeling disproportionately pleased by the ability to do so - as he crossed the last major lane, stepping around foot traffic and a cart before finally slipping into the much narrower alleys leading to the safe house.

It had been a good part of a week since the ambush, and while he still had the occasional sensitivity to rapid reorientations or bright spots of light, he was at least moving relatively normally now. He had never more appreciated a sound neck and a sound skull than when he had attempted to do something as simple as rise from bed, and found that he had to ignominiously roll himself over the edge instead of merely sitting up.

Now he was doing his part to wrap up loose ends that had been left loose too long. Fearing that the Templars would recognize who was responsible for the recent slaughter and seek reprisal, Mathis had convinced the bearded man that he should stay for a few days, out of sight, in one of the anonymous houses that the Assassins maintained scattered through city and countryside. This meant that Mathis had some time to recover and address what he wanted with a clearer head, and to gather word from the street on how well known the man's involvement was, if at all.

Finally reaching a peeling gray door, nearly hidden by a deep carpet of ivy creeping over the thick stonework overshadowing it, Mathis tucked the bag slung across his body closer against his hip as he angled his way inside.

The apartment was a small but tidy affair, two stories tucked between similar tenements, with two bedrooms upstairs and a kitchen and small sitting area at street level. When the bureau was alerted that someone had to remain hidden here, a runner would be sent by once every few days to drop off foodstuffs and any other essentials needed.

Closing the door behind him, muffling even the little street noise that carried into this neighborhood, Mathis had expected to have to search the bedrooms upstairs for the apartment's lone occupant. Instead, he nearly walked right into the man, who was currently up to his elbows in the one large washbasin in the kitchen, a small stack of damp but clean dishware already growing beside him.

Mathis stared in bemusement. The man blinked back. "There is a housekeeper," Mathis pointed out.

The bearded man gave him an odd look, as if he had no idea what Mathis had meant by that. "I take care of things," he responded after a lengthy pause as if uncertain what the expectation was, shaking the latest plate off and setting it aside.

"And people?" Mathis asked with a sudden flash of insight as he set his bag on the small square table tucked in the corner. "Come, sit. I have gifts."

The man's brow pinched, but he dried his hands off and moved to take one of the two chairs agreeably enough. His cheek was still painted dark by a bruise from the Templar's hilt and his left forearm was crisscrossed by a handful of long, thin scabs; relics of shallow slices received when he had not quite deflected a sword swing and the burlap had not proved adequate. Mathis was pleased to note, though, that whatever other hurts he had taken that were hidden by a borrowed shirt and trousers, the man at least did not move with any overt signs of pain.

"A gift for you," Mathis pronounced as he flipped open the top of the bag, taking the topmost item out and setting it before his audience.

The man eyed it with clear interest, but made no move to touch it yet. "Why?"

"Because you saved my life."

"You saved my life also," the man rebutted and swung a hand up with a pair of fingers extended. "Twice."

Mathis bared his teeth deliberately. "And if we go by the number of Templar bodies involved, then you saved mine at least eight times over. Do you really wish to continue? I should warn you that I do not lose arguments, because I am always right."

Dark brows crooked upward before the man abruptly grinned back, the expression surprisingly boyish in its enthusiasm. "Then I warn you I usually don't have patience for bargaining!" he declared and finally reached for the item.

It was a thick leather vambrace that would cover his left arm from elbow to wrist - made all the heavier by hidden strips of metal embedded within the segments bolted along its surface - with a further piece to protect the back of his hand up to and over the base knuckles. The man was quick to try it on, flexing fingers and wrist to test its range of motion, and Mathis grinned to see how pleased he looked. "If you continue to entertain the ridiculous notion of using parts of your body as a shield, then you should at least equip yourself appropriately."

"My ridiculousness saved your life. Eight times over," the man retorted without bothering to look up from his newest possession.

Mathis snorted but conceded, "Touché," before digging out a second item from his bag and flinging it over the man's head.

The man froze in bewilderment before dragging it off with a hand. "It's … not my size?" he said with slow puzzlement, plucking carefully at the pale blue dress' delicate folds, as if afraid that his mere touch could potentially tear it.

"I certainly hope not. It's for your sister."

At that, the man froze, hands clenching tight before he realized the wrinkles he was putting into the garment and releasing it just as suddenly. "Why?" he asked with narrow-eyed suspicion.

Mathis invited himself to the other chair, stretching his legs out before him as he watched the man consideringly. "Because, at the time, it had seemed like something you wanted to do for her."

Confusion flickered briefly over the bearded face before thick brows abruptly pulled down. The man may play to his lower class heritage, but he had a native intelligence that he put to good use, for all its lack of formal training. "You saw me looking at the dresses and you knew I had no weapons. You were following me."

Mathis nodded, careful not to let his gaze waver; he did not want distraction or reminisce to be misinterpreted as guilt or shame. "I was asked to watch you. To set you up."

The man flattened his hands upon the table's edge. Contrary to the usual custom of keeping hands in plain sight as a show of peace, Mathis knew all too well that the man's hands _were_ his weapons, and that the gesture was nothing less than a threat. "To set me up. For what?"

"Something very important. The details aren't, but know that it saved lives, so thank you for that."

The corners of the man's eyes tightened. Mathis hardly expected such a statement to mollify him, but he had hoped for a bit more of a reaction before he sighed and continued, "But this leads me to another question - why did you come? What sent you here playing messenger?" The dark eyes flicked involuntarily down to the dress, and Mathis could practically _see_ the wall coming down between them and added quickly, "For the sake of your sister? Let me help. I know it is difficult to trust a stranger, but I had not needed to pull you out of the way of that first bullet - I _wanted_ to. I think you're a good man, and had not wished to see you dead."

The man's features twisted with hurt and frustration; the most personal emotion Mathis had seen him express yet. Feeling oddly intrusive for witnessing it, the Assassin struggled to find something to say that would not alienate him completely when the man suddenly admitted, "Someone has already helped her. They helped hide her away." The words came slow and grudging, as if each were a coin that he was paying out. He pushed the dress back toward Mathis. "I cannot give this to her."

Mathis pursed his lips thoughtfully, picking his words with care as he carded through the short statements for their hidden meanings. "If it is because you should not be seen with her … I have contacts that can get it to her. Would you like me to do that?" And, because seeing the man so ill at ease was nearly as strange as seeing him wash dishes, Mathis added with arch humor, "We can even add a note, pretending that it's from a secret admirer."

The man automatically bristled with outrage, but only a heartbeat later, his glare turned wry and the tension bled out of his frame, leaving it slumped. But when he rubbed his unencumbered hand over his face, it left behind a somewhat hopeful look, and he hedged, "Let me think on it."

"Of course," Mathis agreed readily with a wave of his hand, hesitating only a moment before he plunged on, now that the tension had broken, "So, the man who had helped your sister … he asked for you to play messenger as payment?"

A short nod of agreement. But this time, after an almost furtive glance at him, the man continued haltingly without additional probing, gaze fixed upon the dress pooled upon the table top. "He said he thought there might be something for me here. In Paris."

This time, it was Mathis who knit his brow in slow suspicion. "What did he say that you would find here?"

The man frowned as he struggled with his memory. "That I had motive. And that there was a cause here that could use it."

Mathis had to throttle the simultaneous urge to laugh long and loud and to bury his face in his hands. The unknown agent that had instigated all this had sent the man here as a _test?_ Struggling to maintain a neutral expression, he asked, "And what would be that motive?"

Lips thinned into a grim line. "We lost our land and our home," the man noted flatly. " _I_ lost our land and our home."

Mathis felt his heart sink slowly through the recitation that followed. In a way, the man embodied everything that was going wrong in France - everything that the Assassins were trying to change. Between the successive bad harvests that left people hungry, and the increasing tax burdens that also left them poor, the lower and middle classes were becoming increasingly shackled to an untouchable elite.

The man had worked everything and anything. Had acquired a truly impressive panoply of skills in a variety of jobs both legal and not quite as much. Had actually managed to keep himself and his sister from going hungry, if not richly fed. But the final blow had been corruption - tax monies that had disappeared after they had been submitted.

"I could not afford another payment," the man husked, hands curled into fists upon the table, an anger in his face that had not been present even when he had been slaughtering the Templars, who had only been after his life and not the home and livelihood of his sister and himself. "When the collectors came, I ran them off. I couldn't stomach having to give them anything more. But they came back … they came back with the local lord and his men. They wanted to make an example of us, to anyone else in the parish, if they thought to resist … " The man's face paled, even now, eyes flat and hard as he said, "They were beasts. They were going to _force_ her."

The man looked sharply away, shoulders flexing with an animosity that had no target. "Do you know, when she was born, that she could fit between my elbow and hand even though I was just half grown? My birthing had been difficult … the midwife predicted my mother was barren afterward. But so many years later, my mother became pregnant again … and even though, this time, it took her life, still she named my sister Félicité - joy - and gave her to me before she breathed her last. Our father passed too only a few years later ... now I can barely remember a time that it was not just the two of us."

And he had killed them for the attempted insult. Killed as many as he could get his hands on. Until someone had finally struck him down, had pinned him and would have made him watch, and he had screamed at them until he thought his throat bled when a man seemed to appear from nowhere and struck the lord down right from his horse.

"He said, rightly, that we could not stay after that," the man slumped with a defeated air, as if he had just fought the battle again instead of merely relived it in memory. "Though he killed the rest and we buried them all, eventually someone would find out. So he offered to find her a place somewhere far away - an apprenticeship with a weaver. And said that he also had a task for me. I stayed long enough to see that she was content … " the barest hitch in the words, a blink, and then he concluded, "and then I came here."

Mathis released the air from his lungs in a long exhale, considering the bowed head before him. Drained of words and energy, the man's gaze rested unseeing upon the dress, hands loose in his lap. Wetting his lips, Mathis eventually reached out to take the garment, draping it neatly over a corner of the table and replacing it with the last item from his bag. "This could be counted, I suppose, as one more gift," he said slowly as the man focused first upon the folds of soft leather and then back upon him. "But it is one that you will have to earn. Let me tell you about that man, and about myself … "

As he spoke of the Assassins and the Templars, of the brotherhood and its mission, the man took hold of the leather and shook it out. Stood, when it proved long, and Mathis could see his gaze sharpening in appreciation as he found it to be a sleeveless coat, similar to what he had given up in the warehouse. Mathis paused as the man shrugged into it, fastened the two buttons on the front, and smoothed down the lapels. A moment as he absorbed the drape and weight of it, and then he reached up to slip the hood over his head.

Mathis could not help feeling a swell of possibility as the beaked edge cast the face beneath it into shadow. The man's weight had automatically centered as he posed, tipped forward over the balls of his feet, hands half-curled as if in anticipation of a leap - Mathis could already imagine the heavy bracer hiding a sharpened blade within.

"France must change to survive," Mathis concluded quietly. "I think that the Assassins must also. The way we operate, the way we fight, the kind of people we train and what we train them for … I think that it is an opportunity for us to follow our nation's example in finding better ways and better paths, and I think that you would make an excellent example."

He could no longer see the man's eyes, but could feel the weight of them upon him; shrewd and measuring. "You want me to fight for you?"

"Not for us … for yourself." Mathis nodded toward the dress. "For your sister's future. For everyone's future. You said you take care of things, but I think it more accurate that you take care of people … people are important, the individuals as well as the masses. Sometimes it is difficult to remember that, the way we Assassins live, and you helped prove to me a few days ago that as strong as we are alone, we can be yet stronger together."

The man made a show of considering the dress, taking the time to mull over the Assassin's words. But Mathis could already see by the set of the man's mouth that the decision was made … he no longer looked upon the garment with melancholy, but with anticipation.

"You will write a letter for me to go with the dress," the man declared, sure as the sun, "and then I will have someone else read it so that I can trust what you'd written."

Mathis laughed as he rose, reaching out to clasp arms with the Assassins' latest Novice. "Done. And better yet, I will teach you to eventually write them yourself. But, allow me to introduce myself properly … I am Mathis Bellard, Assassin.

"Welcome to Paris, Brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I had written this in order to exorcise myself of all the axeman feels, but I think what ended up happening was the opposite. I've had half a dozen little snippets of ideas pop into my mind in the midst of writing this, so there's no guarantees that there won't be a whole bunch of drabbles in the near future.
> 
> A big thank you to wtb, for the corrections and suggestions on all things French! <3


End file.
